


like real people do

by meridies



Series: december prompt week [3]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Break Up, Established Relationship, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Snowed In
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:07:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28207296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meridies/pseuds/meridies
Summary: Dream and George have been together for three years, two months, eleven days, six hours, and a certain number of minutes that Dream doesn’t bother counting anymore.It's around that time when things begin to fall apart.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Series: december prompt week [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2062995
Comments: 71
Kudos: 546
Collections: Dream Team Safespace Prompt Week 2020





	like real people do

**Author's Note:**

  * For [samsungfridge](https://archiveofourown.org/users/samsungfridge/gifts).



> prompt for today was snowed in/snow angels and uh... this happened. enjoy!

It starts, like all things start, with a bang.

“I don’t understand,” George tries to explain, frustrated and tired from the eight hour plane ride and the subsequent sleepless night, “It’s not anything to worry about—”

“Not anything to worry about?” Dream repeats, incensed. “Of course it’s something to worry about. You’re telling me that there are— there are _pictures_?”

“Not of you,” George says sharply, “They’re all of me— and what does it matter, everyone knew I was going to come to New York eventually, it’s not like it’s some big surprise that I got caught this time— Dream, come _back!”_

Dream turns away, heading toward the kitchen. He can hear George behind him, pushing his way after him.

The thing is, it isn’t just pictures.

It’s what the pictures contained.

George, arriving at the airport. George, departing the airport. Him, holding his boarding pass, glancing up at the gates. Him, on his phone, which Dream knew was the moment he called Dream to tell him he had landed. Him, sliding into the passenger seat of Dream’s car (which thankfully had tinted windows. Dream didn’t know what he would have done otherwise). Whoever had photographed them had followed George for a very long time. 

“Dream,” George argues, and he grabs onto Dream’s sleeve, pulling him backwards. “We’ve done damage control before. This isn’t the worst thing that’s happened.”

“It’s not,” Dream says, and anger rears its familiar head, threatening to surface, “But one person takes a picture, and then someone else does. Before you know it there are people watching you— watching _me—”_

Abruptly, George lets go of his sleeve. Dream pulls away. Their house looms empty and shadowed, swallowing up sound. 

The familiar argument about when to do a face reveal threatens to boil over. It’s always been there, between them— the threat of when to do it, when to talk about it, how, when, _why._ George never pushes, never prods, but Dream isn’t an idiot. He can sense when his boyfriend is frustrated about things. He knows that George is fed up with him.

“They care about you,” George says simply. His tone is matter-of-fact. “If you don’t want the pictures out there, ask everyone to delete them. Most everyone will listen to you.”

 _Most everyone._ Not _all._ Dream knows that he’s become too famous of a person to have an audience that he has complete control over. 

The pictures trend late into the night. The fan account who posts them deactivates their account. The pictures, unfortunately, do not deactivate with them.

A fraying thread in Dream’s chest sinks lower, lower, and lower.

* * *

He and George have been together for three years, two months, eleven days, six hours, and a certain number of minutes that Dream doesn’t bother counting anymore. Before they blew up together on YouTube, before the incessant shipping began, before any of that happened, it was just the two of them across a wide, wide ocean. Dream would stay up the entire night and sleep the entire day, thinking of all the ways they would bridge the gap. The amount of times he looked up plane tickets is uncountable. He paused his mouse over them, considered buying. What would it be like to show up at George’s house the next morning, without any warning? How soft would he be in person, hand in hand, face tilted towards Dream, like they’re made to fit together? 

Dream never ended up buying the tickets to go across the ocean. Instead, George was the one who did it. He showed up on Dream’s doorstep late on an August night, a belated birthday present in his hand, a suitcase at his back.

“Am I late?” he said, breathless and exhausted from the plane flight. “I came here as soon as I could.”

“You came,” Dream breathed.

“I came,” George grinned, and fell into Dream’s open arms.

That was the first time they met in person, the first time Dream had the opportunity to do everything to George that he had dreamed; run a hand down his side, feel the way he shuddered beneath him; kiss him in the shower, smelling like mango body wash and green tea; curl next to him in bed, sleepy and warm; press gentle fingers to the freckles on his cheeks, the one that his webcam is never quite able to catch. He got to do all of those things, each one and more, and George loved it. He whispered to Dream at night, at day, whenever they decided that they were tired enough to sleep together.

 _Come with me,_ George whispered, a hand out, and Dream would have followed him to the end of earth. 

Now, they lie together in bed. The pictures have remained, burned into Dream’s mind, and he sees them every time he blinks, every time the world goes dark before his eyes. He sees them when he brushes his teeth next to George’s at night, elbows bumping and mouth full of mint, and he sees them when they clamber into bed together, lights off and moon out. 

George curls up against him and somehow manages to sleep. Dream doesn’t; he can’t. He thinks about those pictures and what they represent. 

He loves George. Of this, he is certain. 

That’s the crux of things. He wants to keep George. George does not seem to care as much about the pictures as Dream does. Dream, unfortunately, has always had a heart too big for his chest. 

Finally, when the moon is high over them, and the entire house is still, Dream admits, “You’re right.” 

George stirs, pliant and warm from sleep, and his cheek is pressed into Dream’s chest. Dream’s words are swallowed by the night, and in the moments between his speaking and George awakening, he wonders if he had spoken at all.

George blinks. His voice is hoarse from sleep. “What?”

“You’re right,” Dream repeats again, the words burning on his tongue. Something rises in his throat like bile. “You were right about it not being a big deal.”

Dream has never been good with apologies. George has never been one to accept half-baked sorries. They lie at an impasse.

“Okay,” George says, and clears his throat. The wrinkles of Dream’s hoodie are pressed into his cheek, and it’s moments like this when Dream thinks about just how _lucky_ he is. To have George in his bed, to have George there next to him. To be the only one who gets to see George wake up in the mornings, drink the same sweet, overly steeped tea, kiss him senseless by the kitchen window. Make endless dirty jokes that make George’s ears turn bright red. Trace smooth circles into the soft skin, right by George’s hipbone, think about all the secrets he could whisper to his boyfriend but doesn’t. 

“Any reason you’re saying that?” George says lightly. He pushes back slightly, enough that there’s an inch of space between them. “It’s very late.”

“I know,” Dream says. “I was just thinking.”

“Overthinking.”

“That,” Dream breathes. “I do that a lot.”

George hums. “It’s fresh. Give it some time.”

“I feel like it’s been ages.”

“A week, at least,” George persists. “A week can change a lot of things.”

Dream knows this too well. Twitter is fickle, with an attention span shorter than the tide, and things wash in and out of interest easily. He’s sure that in a week’s time, Twitter and all its occupants will have forgotten completely about the images of George arriving at the airport, of him getting inside Dream’s car. 

“I hope so,” Dream says. “I have very low hopes.”

“You know,” George says, “Optimism is said to be a good thing.”

Optimism and pessimism have swayed in Dream from time to time, fighting to keep his interest as well. He’s always been regarded as more of an optimist, but recently, things have been weighing on him somewhat. He can’t place a name on it. Everything is suffocating. He feels like he hasn’t had a full breath of air in ages. 

“I’m not a pessimist,” Dream says, “I’m a realist.”

George’s eyes are keen. “I never said you were one.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“You always assume things, don’t you?”

Dream presses his lips together and doesn’t respond.

George continues, “They don’t know we’re dating. They don’t know anything about our lives besides what we give them. Most of them don’t even know we’ve _moved.”_

Dream frowns, a divot between his brows. He says, “Do you think they should know?”

George frowns as well. “Why are you asking that?”

He spreads a hand helplessly, trying to put the idea into words. He settles on this: “Giving them an answer would be better than letting them speculate. Otherwise it’ll only grow.”

 _The rumor,_ Dream says. The rumor that the two of them are together right now, that they’re dating, that they’re more than what they appear on camera. 

“If you’re going to go online,” George says carefully, “I wouldn’t do it at midnight when you’re sleep deprived.”

The moon rises high overhead. It shines down onto them, revealing all their secrets in liquid, silver. Dream feels stripped bare next to him. 

“I’ll say something in the morning,” he decides. 

“You’ll let me proofread it beforehand?”

The barest laugh escapes him. George looks almost concerned, eyes soft and interrogating, hand splayed over Dream’s heart. It beats beneath his skin, slow and gentle. _One, two._

“Of course,” Dream says. Anything that includes him includes George. 

“Good,” George says. He shifts, so that his back is against Dream’s chest, and sleepily pulls an arm over his stomach. Dream shifts, spreads his hand wide so he can feel the warm skin of George’s stomach. “Go to sleep, then. It’s too late.”

Dream knows that it was an asshole move to wake George up in the middle of the night just to utter a half-assed apology, one that wasn’t even an apology at all. He didn’t mean to blow up at George; he never does. It’s just that he can’t take any of his frustration out online, because every word he ever says becomes twisted and sharpened, like the point of a blade that was never meant to hurt, and he’s always been too rash and too emotional. He does his best not to take things out on George either. He’s always been quieter, preferring to stay out of the drama, let Dream speak for him, sometimes even speaking over him.

Dream asked, one time, if that was okay for him to say. He had seen all these threads online, talking about how Dream never gave his friends a chance to speak, that he was too controlling. Too excessive. Too _much._

“No,” George had said. “If I have an issue with it, I’ll tell you.”

Dream dwells on those words as night creeps closer to the sunrise, the means to an end. George hums in his sleep. He mutters _ta_ under his breath, which could mean anything and everything. Dream chooses to interpret it as this: _come to sleep with me too._

He closes his eyes. He sees the pictures.

No matter how hard he tries to sleep, they never quite manage to fade.

* * *

Dream had moved out of Florida nearly two years after he and George had started dating. It wasn’t an easy decision, but it was one of the best. There were too many issues, and after a while, he had become known in his neighborhood. How strange it was, to see the parents of his childhood best friends recognize him as famous. To know his name. To know him as _Dream_ rather than _Clay,_ and it was simply so weird that he came to the eventual conclusion that it would be easier to move away rather than to continue walking the same childhood streets, the ones that know him as a completely different person.

He moved to upstate New York. There’s a house there, spruce lined and quiet, that suits him perfectly. He lives a stone’s throw away from the busy city, after all, and he can go there on the weekend’s if he wishes. 

That’s where George comes to visit him, now, nearly every few months. He flies into JFK and Dream picks him up, in his little car that he finally managed to purchase, after years of saving his Youtube money. George comes over for all the holidays, and this one is no exception. They wake up to an exciting sight; the first flurries of snow are beginning to fall.

It’s still a strange sight for Dream. It never snows in Florida, too close to the equator, too close to water. Here, though, it snows all throughout the winter. The lake, which is a decent hike away, freezes over completely. Trees transform themselves into shapeless masses; Dream’s boots leave thick footprints through the powder, as he goes through the motions. 

“Good morning,” George says, when Dream emerges from their shared bedroom. “The weather’s wonderful.”

“It’s fucking awful,” Dream mutters.

“Aw,” George says, “Are you cold?”

The house is built for keeping in heat. Dream, however, is not. He’s a Floridian at heart, made for the heat and the sun, and he isn’t made for withstanding the cold.

“Very,” Dream says. 

“Come here,” George says. “I’ll warm you up.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Dream says, but he melts into George’s embrace. His boyfriend wraps two arms around him and tucks his chin onto Dream’s shoulder. 

“Any plans for today?” George mumbles.

Dream tries to think. “Editing,” he says, after a while. “Maybe I’ll stream.”

“Hm,” George says. “Well, I’ll leave you to it.”

Dream closes the door behind him to his office a few minutes later, opens up his editing software, but he only gets a few minutes into it before realizing that it’s the last thing he wants to do. Instead, he opens up Twitch. 

A few hours pass. Dream falls into an easy stride, and he’s barely aware of the passage of time. That is, until he hears George’s voice, echo through their house. 

“Dream!” George shouts, and Dream’s heart skips a beat. 

He moves to mute his microphone, but he’s just a beat too slow. George’s voice echoes through his office, traversing directly through the stream, to the hundreds of thousands of people that are watching. They all hear him say, _are you busy, baby?_

The chat moves faster than Dream can catch up with it. He’s grateful for the fact that he doesn’t have a webcam, because he turns away from the game to look at the door and his face is burning.

“I’m streaming,” he says. _To three hundred forty five thousand people. All of whom just heard you call me baby, out loud, and that moment will be immortalized forever._

“Oh,” George says, and he pauses, one hand on the door. Worry is painted in terrible colors all over his face. “You’re muted right now— right?”

There are a million things that Dream wants to say, and they all swarm in the back of his mind, shouting senselessly at each other. The one that surfaces to the front is bitter and cruel, and Dream hardly even wants to think it, let alone speak it. 

_How are you so careless?_

“Yes,” Dream says. “I am.”

George’s face breaks into relief. Dream knows that the relief will shatter, the next moment he steps online, and is bombarded with clips of his own voice saying things like that. Dream doesn’t have the heart to say it for himself. 

“Good,” George says. “Sorry for interrupting— I’ll tell you when you’re done.”

Dream glances at the time; he’s been streaming for the last three hours, about to hit three and a half hours. It might be time to end the stream, isn’t it?

“Give me a moment,” he promises, “I’ll probably just end the stream now.”

“You don’t have to— it’s really not that important.”

Dream shrugs. His hand moves to unmute his microphone, which he knows George takes as his cue to leave. “It’s no big deal. It’s been a few hours, anyway.”

“If you’re sure.” George's voice sounds troubled, concerned. But he closes the door to Dream’s office and doesn’t press; Dream hears his footsteps go down the hall, growing quieter and quieter.

It takes him a few moments to end the stream. He firmly ignores the way that the chat is flying by, faster than Dream can even proces it, and he spares a moment of pity for the mods, who are likely struggling with all of this. The stream ends, Dream closes out of Minecraft, and he slumps over his desk.

For a moment, it feels like George’s presence in his house is more suffocating than comforting. It’s a terrible thought, but idly he wonders if inviting George was the right idea, or if George should have stayed in Britain for this Christmas. 

It’s terrifying. The thought of drifting apart.

“Hi,” George says anxiously, when Dream exits the room. He reaches up, brushes a hand through Dream’s hair. Dream knows that his own hair is ruffled, from where he’s dug his hands into it out of frustration, in the moments after the stream ended. “Is everything okay?”

From his tone, Dream gathers that he’s seen the clip. He knows that Dream was just a little too slow to completely shut out the idea that they’re living together. Apparently, Twitter and Tiktok and every other social media site in the world has taken those four words— _are you busy, baby?_ — and run rampant with it.

“Everything’s fine,” Dream says, and he laughs, though nothing about the situation feels funny at all. “They were going to find out eventually, weren’t they?”

George is still staring at him, with that same fraught expression on. He doesn’t laugh, and the smile slides from Dream’s face. “Really, though,” he says, “I know you value your privacy. I’m sorry, I should have checked to see if you were streaming or not. I just thought you were editing or something, really—”

“It’s fine,” Dream says, and he waves a hand impassively. The last thing he wants to do is worry George, and he hates seeing him so upset. At George’s insistence that it _isn’t fine,_ Dream opens his mouth again and cuts him off. “If it wasn’t, I would tell you.”

George narrows his eyes. “Would you?”

“Yes,” Dream says. “I would.”

He hates the traitorous voice inside of him, that whispers viciously, _you wouldn’t, you wouldn’t, you wouldn’t._

Dream has never made a habit out of lying to himself. He wonders when the habit started, though. Was there a time? Was there a day?

He must sound serious and truthful enough, because the concerned gaze on George’s face slips away into something much gentler, much kinder.

“Good,” he breathes. “I trust you.”

The words feel foreign in Dream mouth. “I trust you too.” 

They stand in silence for a moment. Dream crosses across the kitchen and opens the pantry cabinets; he’s not even hungry, but he needs something to do. He pushes and prods around until another question strikes at his curiosity.

“What were you going to say?” Dream says, and continues when George looks quizzically at him, “When you interrupted me. You said you had something to say.”

The confusion clears from George’s eyes. “Oh!” He exclaims. “Sapnap texted me. He’s inviting us to a Christmas party.”

Dream frowns. “A Christmas party?”

“In the city,” George clarifies. “He says that he’s flying up to us, just for a few days, and we might as well, right?”

Dream, despite all his socializing, has never been one for large parties. Shockingly, that’s more of George’s alley, things that he’s more comfortable with. 

“Sure,” he says, and shrugs lightly, “If you’ll be there.”

George smiles. “Of course I will.” 

* * *

It’s a long, downward spiral. 

One thing after the next, after the next, after the next.

* * *

It all comes to a head the day after Sapnap’s little Christmas party, in the middle of New York City. He and George stumbled home together, taking a taxi since the champagne had gone to their heads, clinging onto each other outside of the bar, underneath the streetlamps. Snow flurried around them. 

It falls apart in the morning. Dream wakes up to find himself trending on Twitter, and his heart drops, sickening and nauseated. 

George is nowhere to be found. That’s the other thing. 

“George?” Dream calls, voice tinged with something just short of panic, “Did you— are you seeing this?”

The bathroom door is closed. The water runs, endlessly onwards, and Dream watches his world crash and burn before his very eyes.

“George!” Dream says, nearing a shout, and raps on the door, “Have you—”

The water shuts off. George’s voice sounds near hopelessness.

“I’ve seen it.”

Two pictures, blurry, taken through a low-quality camera. Of Dream and George, together, entwined underneath the streetlamps and colorful Christmas lights. Dream’s hands are on George’s waist, and George’s arms are around Dream’s neck, and the snow falls softly around him. The picture is of them kissing. 

There’s a video, too. Some person down the street took it, zooming in while the camera shakes, and their voice exclaims something brightly in the background. Dream wonders if they know just how much they have ruined everything. 

“George?” Dream says, and his voice cracks. “Can you open the door?”

He waits, hand raised, ready to knock again, to demand George to let him in, but he doesn’t have to. George cracks the door open, and Dream slips inside. He shuts it firmly behind him.

George has his elbows propped up on the counter, head in his hands. His shoulders are tight with tension. He looks miserable. His phone has skittered across the tiled floor, coming to a rest in the corner.

“That’s such bullshit,” he says, throat thick with tears, “That fucking video.”

“Are you okay?” Dream asks, heart leaping into his throat. George shakes his head. His voice is muffled.

“We just shouldn’t have been outside,” he says, and there’s a note of pleading, like he’s trying to figure out the right way to say it. “We should have been more careful.”

“It’s a little too late to be careful,” Dream says coldly.

His anger has always burned hot, and it uses him, rather than the other way around. Today, though, his anger burns cold. It’s sharper than a doctor’s scalpel and Dream wants to inflict his own rage onto other people. He knows that it’s unfair to hold it against George, when both of their boundaries were invalidated, pushed aside like they were nothing, but there’s something inside of Dream that shouts at the injustice of it all.

“I know that,” George snaps, “I know, I know.”

“Is there any way we can get it taken down?”

“I don’t think so,” George says, and there’s a tinge of anger and rage and pain to his voice, “We can ask them to stop, but I think that would only…”

It would only confirm it. The second they go online next, every question will be about their relationship. It has been like that, for the last year nearly. Fans are constantly barraging them for questions. This clip, those pictures, will live on in posterity. There’s nowhere to go but down, see? Because now that this is out there— now that the masses have been fed, have gotten what they wanted, it’ll all go downhill. 

“This is miserable.”

George doesn’t bother agreeing. He only lifts his head, eyes red-rimmed, and rubs at them. He turns, like he wants to fall into Dream’s arms, but doesn’t. George holds himself tense in a way Dream has never seen him do before. 

“You can tweet something out,” George says. “You always do.”

There’s a cold undercurrent of accusations there. _You always do._

Dream’s lungs catch. “Okay.”

“I’m going to take a walk,” George says. “Please— you know what? It doesn’t matter. I’ll come back when I’m ready.”

“Okay,” Dream says, and now the sharp, hot anger in him is replaced with the cold, heavy blue of fear. 

George goes through the entire process of pulling on his winter coat and boots only to wrench open the door and find—

“You have to be fucking kidding me.”

Dream shivers. The wind blows directly through his sleep-shirt, goosebumps prickling to the surface. “Are we snowed in?”

The sun is shining brightly off a wide, wide expanse of white. The entire world seems to have been covered overnight, and frost creeps onto the windows, streaking across the glass in frames of white. It blankets everything so completely that it's impossible to tell where the frame of Dream’s car begins or ends, and where the sidewalk merges into the street. The snowplows haven’t come through yet. They truly are trapped inside. 

George’s gaze is like ice. “So we’re snowed in,” he says, his voice tinny to Dream’s ears. “Really?”

Dream gestures fruitlessly. “It can’t be that bad, can it?”

Now that there’s no possibility of leaving, the house begins to feel oppressively small. The weight of the world cowers over them, pressing down, and George’s gaze turns flinty. 

“Of course,” he says, cool and laced with irritation, “Of course it’s not that bad.”

Without another word, he marches to Dream’s guest bedroom. The door slams behind him. Dream stares, tense and worried. 

His phone blares. It’s the terrible video, playing on repeat. It takes everything in him not to throw his phone across the room. 

* * *

For the first time in a month, they sleep in different beds.

Dream stares at the ceiling and tries to fall asleep and finds, miserably, he cannot. 

That night, so awfully impulsive, Dream posts a few very important tweets.

He’s always stated, so explicitly, that he doesn’t have strong boundaries. If he cares about something, he’ll say it. If he doesn’t mind, he’ll just ignore it. 

But those pictures— and the video— 

A moment that should have been theirs, should have been private, is now broadcasted to the entire world.

He feels sick.

That’s it, he supposes. He confirms their relationship online. The world trembles and shakes and falls around him and it feels like everything has been ripped away from him, in one fell swoop. 

* * *

Sapnap does his best to console him over text. 

Dream, for his part, does his best not to listen. But the issue is that Sapnap doesn’t understand; he has no idea what it’s like for them.

The most terrifying thing now is that Dream doesn’t feel the same.

Three years ago, there was a jump in his stomach whenever he looked at George, giddy and inviting. It felt like falling; more than that, it felt like flying. He would see George’s name pop up on his phone and smile. The entire world felt like it was unfurling before his feet, a carpet of springtime.

But that springtime has long since disappeared. Summer arrived, bringing with it the quiet months of comfort and solitude. The world exploded around them into motion, and it swept Dream and George along with it, vibrant colors upon enormous sounds. They grew and grew, and summer faded into the quiet mist of autumn. 

The autumn, in turn, vanished into winter. Nothing grows in front of them now. 

Dream stares down at the cup of tea in his hands. It’s green tea, George’s favorite. The scent of it fills the house, wafting to every single corner. The steam clouds his mind and his senses, but it too grows cold before long.

Has he fallen out of love with George?

He doesn’t know. 

* * *

A few hours later finds Dream, waiting impatiently by the door. Sapnap had told him to be there for his New Year’s Eve party by nine; it’s nearing ten, and George still isn’t ready. Dream’s coat is on, boots laced, and he has one hand on the doorknob. 

“George,” Dream says impatiently, and irritation worms its way into his tone, “We’re going to be late.”

“It’s _fine_ ,” George says, uncharacteristically upset. “Sapnap won’t mind.”

“We should have been there at least thirty minutes ago.”

“It’s _New Year’s,_ ” George snaps, “All that matters is that we get there before midnight.”

“It’s already ten.”

“That’s two hours.” 

“That’s not at all what I mean.” 

George wrenches his coat, navy and thick, from the rack, and he pulls it on sharply. He looks flustered, upset. “I’m ready. Are we going now?” 

“Fine,” Dream says, “The car’s already started.”

Snow trickles from the sky, falling steadily downwards. George irritably brushes off the flakes that land on him, the ones that Dream used to kiss off his cheekbones, and slams the car door behind him. It takes Dream a few moments to spur the car into motion, and when he does, George sighs. Like in impatience— like Dream is holding him back.

Dream places two hands on the wheel. White knuckled. He stares at the road, and something froths inside of him, painful and angry.

George is silent and upset. 

The injustice of it all is what sets Dream off.

“Don’t take I-87,” George says. “There’ll be traffic.”

Dream doesn’t shift lanes. “There will be traffic everywhere.”

“Taking Route 9 would be faster,” George says. 

“It won’t.”

“Dream—”

“It won’t!”

“Fine,” George snaps. Dream turns onto the onramp for I-87 in the next moment. “It’s too late, anyway.” 

“There’s no traffic,” Dream says, and gestures. “This way is faster. Obviously.”

“It doesn’t matter,” George snaps. He turns and shifts his legs, leaning against the car door. “Just drop it.”

“I’m not the one who’s angry over _traffic routes_.”

Coolly: “That’s not what I’m angry about.”

The highway stretches in front of him, empty and yielding. It’s snowing lightly, more sleet than snow at all. 

“The tweets,” Dream says. It’s not a question, more a statement.

“I never said I was angry about them.”

“You can just tell me,” Dream says, “It would be better than this silent passive-aggressive act.”

George keeps his eyes on the road, His voice is stiff. “I’m not being passive-aggressive.” 

“You’ve been an asshole all day.”

“I thought you liked it when I was sarcastic.”

Memories of a night resurface from so long ago. Dream had muttered, sweaty and exhausted into George’s ear, that he liked the snark. He liked the fight. He liked it when George took a while to give in.

“This is hardly the same,” Dream retorts, and the memory wipes away with the squeak of the windshield wipers. “I don’t like it when you’re acting like this.”

“Like what?”

Dream refuses to take his eyes off the road. His foot presses down on the gas pedal, just slightly more. “When you refuse to take into account any of my feelings. Or anyone else's. When all you think about is yourself.”

Incensed, George turns on him. “You’re putting words in my mouth.”

“Am I?” Dream says coolly. “I don’t think I am.”

“I never said that I didn’t care about you.”

“You’re acting like it!”

“This is all because of you,” George says, “Just because of those stupid pictures—”

“ _Stupid?”_

“You have twenty million subscribers, you had to know that something like this would happen eventually—”

“I didn’t think the entire world would trend it. Or find out about it.”

“And what?” George snaps. “You thought you would remain anonymous forever? You thought the entire world would go on and not pressure you for anything?”

“I wanted to do a face reveal on my own terms.”

“Congrats,” George sneers, “You believed in a lie.”

Then his voice jerks up— “This exit, right here.”

Dream takes a sharp turn across two separate lanes and barely manages to make it off the highway. He comes to a stop at a red light; his foot slams on the brakes and it jerks the two of them forward. 

“Thanks,” Dream mutters.

George crosses his arms and doesn’t say anything. 

George’s words echo in his head. _You believed in a lie._ What else is a lie that Dream has believed in? _Who_ else is a lie?

The light turns green. Quietly, Dream says, “That wasn’t very nice to say.”

“It’s the truth.”

“There are nicer ways of saying it.”

“I thought you didn’t want to be babied.”

Dream grits his teeth. The streets are becoming more crowded the closer they get to Sapnap’s apartment, in the heart of New York City. They’ll probably have to park farther away to avoid the New Year’s Eve crowds. 

“Take this turn,” George says. “It’s faster.”

“There’s no harm with going straight right now.”

“Well,” George says pointedly, “I want to get out of this damn car as soon as possible. I’d appreciate it if you’d hurry up a bit.”

Dream’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. 

“You know,” he says, aiming to hurt, “If I had known you would turn out like this, I wouldn’t have wasted eight years of my life on you.” 

The car goes completely silent.

Dream faintly registers that George has turned away from him, snapped his mouth shut. His eyes fill. 

The light turns green. 

Dream keeps driving. 

“That’s cruel,” George says finally. “I thought you were better than that.” 

“Congrats,” Dream says, “You believed in a lie.”

He throws George’s own words back in his face. It’s a petty and cruel thing to do. 

The tension is thick enough to cut with a knife. They don’t speak again until the next red light. 

“I don’t know if this is working,” Dream says, at the same time George says, “I think this is over.”

Dream stares out the windshield. There’s no sound in the car but the faint whistling of the air conditioning and the squeak of the windshield wipers.

“Are we still going to do this?” Dream says finally. His voice sounds tinny. There’s white noise rushing through his ears. 

George shakes his head. “No.” 

There they sit, for just another few moments. 

The light turns green. Dream keeps driving. He feels oddly detached from everything, like he’s floating above it all. 

“I can stay at Sapnap’s place,” George says, but Dream barely hears it.

“Okay,” he says. He can’t hear his own voice. 

* * *

If they’re oddly distant, detached, or disconnected at Sapnap’s party, no one mentions it. 

They don’t speak to anyone. They don’t even speak to each other. They get back to Dream’s apartment, before midnight even strikes, and stand there in the doorway, not really sure what to do.

What do you do when there’s nothing left?

“I’ll grab my things,” George says.

 _Wait,_ Dream screams, _Come back, come back, come back._

No sound emerges from his mouth. He stands in the doorway. The Uber takes an agonizingly long time to arrive, and in that time, George packs his things with precise, stiff movements. He leaves behind Dream’s hoodie, the one he fell asleep last night in. It does something funny to Dream’s heart when he sees it. 

He gets into the car without a word of goodbye. Dream locks the door behind him. The house is shadowed, dark, and empty.

Dream only makes it two steps away from the door before he crumples. 

* * *

That night, Dream stares at the ceiling and tries to cry. Nothing happens.

It starts with a bang and it ends with a whimper and the saddest part about it is that Dream never gets to say _thank you._ Not for the ages of friendship, the years of romance, the months full of painfully slow separation. 

The clock strikes midnight.

“Happy New Year,” Dream whispers, and there is no one by his side to hear it. 

**Author's Note:**

> i feel like i need an obligatory mention that twitter is wonderful + respects cc's boundaries, i just needed a catalyst for the plot n this was the most likely option. 
> 
> if you enjoyed, please leave kudos or comments! they really make my day <3


End file.
